


Undeniable Fates

by Yako



Series: Uncrossed Lovers [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Au Ra Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Domestic Violence, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Far Future, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Original Character(s), Male Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Named Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Original Character-centric, Physical Abuse, Redemption, Reincarnation, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:21:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27858246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yako/pseuds/Yako
Summary: Some two hundred years have passed since the Warrior of Light vanquished the Ascians.  His lifetime is remembered as the Age of Heroes, and Eorzea has enjoyed an unprecedented age of peace.  Yet once again the realm is under threat, and once again hope blossoms in unexpected places.Souls without memories are born anew.  Once, two of them were lovers; twice they were enemies.Now they meet again, for the very first time.
Relationships: Elidibus/Lahabrea (Final Fantasy XIV), Lahabrea & Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light
Series: Uncrossed Lovers [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2039477
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **WARNING:** This novel contains domestic violence/abuse. I will put warnings on individual chapters that are most explicit.

Few cities in Eorzea could compare to the serene beauty of evening in the Ishgardian pillars.

If one looked over the far edges one could see the highlands stretch below them, or the serene rolling of clouds and fog. If one turned to examine the stonework, they would find flecks of crystal in the ancient masonry glittering in the waxing moon, guiding the way for lost travelers. The stones were so ancient that the path dipped in places, worn down by twelve centuries of busy feet, telling a humbling story of all that came before.

Yet in spite of this beauty, few souls dared to venture under the streetlights of the midnight bell. It was safe enough, certainly—the watchful eyes of the Temple Knights ensured calm evenings. The issue lied in the turning of seasons. Though Ishgard saw an end to its eternal winter in the quarter-millennium since the Seventh Umbral Era, summers were still brisk and winters were still brutal. The trees now had largely shed their last leaves, bare branches reaching for the stars, and the wind stung and bit at those who braved the travel outside. Winter in Ishgard’s evenings was only for drunken knights wandering home and clandestine meetings of star-crossed lovers. Tonight, however, one figure stood apart from the usual Elezen stragglers.

Though exceptionally short for his kind—barely over six fulms—his curling black horns and thick, scaly tail would allow anyone to identify the youth as a lowborn Au Ra. His ample clothing concealed most of his features, but the simple and functional nature of his garb signified a craftsman. He moved swiftly, glancing back frequently as if avoiding a tail. No one, however, followed or even paid him much interest; the only recognition he received was a few strange looks from highborn folk sharing the streets. He made for an unusual midnight destination: Saint Reymanaud Cathedral, home of Saint Edalim’s Scholasticate and Bibliotheca.

He expected guards to stop him outside the building, but there were thankfully none, and the huge, ancient wooden doors gave with his push. As soon as the door shut behind him, he slumped against the doors to catch his breath, his heart apparently racing from the journey over. He began to remove some of his accessories: work goggles moved to his forehead, and his cowl pulled down around his neck, exposing his round face.

“Looking for something, boy?”

The Au Ra gasped with a start as he looked up. A temple knight approached him, face mask concealing his expression.

“Don’t usually see commoners this time of night,” the knight continued.

The youth stood abruptly, legs shaking as he fumbled with a messenger’s satchel. “S-sorry… pray forgive my sudden intrusion. I-I’m here on business,” he began, retrieving identification papers and handing them over to the knight. “Sain Dhoro, Skysteel Manufactory. I’m here for the Bibliotheca—one of my projects requires research.”

The knight flipped the the papers over in his hand, reading them carefully. “Dhoro… any relation to the foreman?”

“Yes!” Sain cleared his throat. “Yes. Chanar Dhoro is my sire.”

“I would think that the foreman would know not to send his boy to the Bibliotheca at this hour. Public hours are—”

“I-it’s secret!” The Au Ra wrung his hands together as he continued, “My father’s sixtieth nameday is approaching, a-and I found an old heirloom in the attic—I want to—to surprise him by restoring it. I can’t create a credible excuse to leave the manufactory during work hours—so a nighttime visit is the only way to—to keep a secret.”

The guard, though visibly relaxing upon hearing the youth’s testimony, still held firm. “What is this heirloom of yours?”

“An… an orrery.” Sain fiddled with the strap of his satchel, the strangeness of his story unbearably apparent. “I assume it _must_ have belonged to someone in our family, and—”

Suddenly the knight looked up and clapped a hand on Sain’s shoulder. The Auri youth did his best to suppress a yelp, brilliant green eyes staring forward in apprehensive terror. To his great surprise and relief, the eyes that stared back at him were smiling, even beneath the placid mask.

“It sounds like a grand gesture for your father,” the knight said. “If only my children would see fit to honor my namedays as such… sometimes they don’t even bother to buy me an almond tart. Would you believe it?” He handed Sain’s identification papers back to him. “Now, if any volumes go missing, your father _will_ be notified, of course. As long as you cause no trouble, however, I’ll see to it that you find the entry you need.”

“Th-thank you, sir.”

“By the by… if you see anyone else in there—well, if they’re not in Scholasticate uniform you should call upon me. But if they _are_ in uniform, tell them to get their arse to bed for me?” The knight continued, muttering under his breath, “It’s not my bloody job to play nursemaid, but the deacons keep asking me to clear the place…”

Sain chuckled nervously. “O-of course I can d-do… that.” In a momentary pause, he glanced over to the entrance of the bibliotheca.

The guard caught the boy’s impatience. “Right! Off you go. Hope you find what you’re looking for, n’ all that.”

“Thank you! …A-again!” 

* * *

As soon as Sain crossed the threshold into Saint Edalim’s Bibliotheca itself, he felt his knees give out and he sunk to the floor, adrenaline failing. He had just a moment to catch his breath, though; work needed to be done, and time in which to do it was sparse. The first step would be… to find out how, exactly, the library ordered its books. Had he really planned this so poorly?

 _Focus, Sain_. He remembered something about an index of the library’s volumes near the main desk. All he had to do was find it… and then…

…Was he supposed to find the book by its title, or by its author?

He needed to take a guess, and as he located the card index he chanced to find a book by title. After all, some texts and doctrines were so old the author was unknown, or had multiple authors. How could one find a book like that if the index was organized by author? Confident in his reasoning, he proceeded to… H.

As he flipped through every treatise ever written by a member of House Haillenarte, Sain cursed himself for assuming books were only stored under a single category and working himself into worry. _No time for that._ He pushed through H-A… H-E-A-D… H-E-A-R… finally a wave of relief washed over him as he saw the word _Heavensward_. Now he simply needed to find the oldest copies…

He pulled a journal out of his satchel and copied the information he needed, then checked his pocket watch. Sain was certain he had wasted at least half a bell, but since passing through the great doors, only seven minutes had elapsed. Nerves frayed nearly to their limits, he uttered a short prayer to Halone that he may not run into any other souls burning the midnight oil as he began the next step of his search.

Sain had come prepared for dealing with delicate, ancient tomes, and wrestled on a pair of thin cotton gloves as he made his way to the special collections. Once again he pulled his cowl over his mouth and nose to stop his breath from disturbing the reference material. In short time he found the special collections, still lit for the evening with Ironworks lamps. A quick scan of the room revealed no one else, but the lights suggested someone had merely stepped away for a moment. He needed to work fast. The books here were ordered with a strange number system; he cross-referenced his notebook a myriad of times to ensure he was on the right track as his anxious mind sapped his short-term memory. Finally he came to the shelf where it should be, and sure enough, his eyes caught the spine he was looking for…

…Behind a ladder used to reach the upper shelves with ease. Nothing to be done about it, he supposed—he gave the ladder an experimental push. It did not give. He put more force behind it, and though he felt it was far more than should be necessary, it finally gave way with an odd sound. No time to ponder it; he snatched two editions of the classic memoir, _Heavensward_ , that looked sufficiently old enough for his purposes.

He was making his way to a nearby table to study their contents when a voice broke the stillness of the bibliotheca. “Is it _truly_ so difficult to look up, now?”

Sain froze, his blood running cold, and he nearly dropped his prize on the ground. His wish to avoid ruining the books barely won over his flight reactions, muscles straining to hold everything in place. He breathed deeply, deliberating each action in his head before moving. _Take one step to the table—now two steps—three steps—you made it. Now, set the books down… then look up_ …

At the top of the ladder he had just moved sat an Elezen man, roughly the same age as Sain. His dark skin was tinted heavily with grey—the telltale sign of a Duskwight—and his short, platinum blond hair framed his face in loose waves. His facial features were largely buried in a tome whose title Sain could not make out, and the young man continued reading despite having been moved against his will.

“Oh, gods,” Sain began, “I—I am—I am _so_ sorry. I needed a…”

Sain’s apologetic reaction was enough for the Elezen to lower his book and make eye contact. He wore an apathetic expression on his face, pale golden eyes boring into the Au Ra’s soul with inscrutable judgment. “How did you get in, anyway?” Sain remembered the knight’s words about others in the library and scanned the man for a Scholasticate uniform. He relaxed slightly when he found it draped over his shoulders like a blanket, revealing the expensive nightwear beneath. His head knew it wouldn’t help, but his heart reflexively began searching for his papers again.

“S-Sain Dhoro, Skysteel Manufactory. I have permission to be here. I’m—I’m researching the Age of Heroes—”

“You have need to visit the special sections for the most popular and widely-circulated book in Ishgardian history?” Sain felt himself reflexively crossing his arm’s in self-defense. “It’s—I need the old editions—I’m looking for… for specific… i-illustrations…”

As his voice grew weaker Sain heard the voice of the Elezen in his head, cold and cruel. _“So, you need pictures to understand the stories?”_ he’d say. _“I thought the craftsmen would at least teach you uncultured dragon-men how to read the books you print._ ” And then his lips would curl into a cruel smile, his laugh barely stifled. _“Know your place, goldsmith: you are neither artist nor adventurer. You will never be anything more than a mass-market artisan.”_ Sain shut his eyes, hands balling into fists as he waited for the mocking to begin, mind racing as to how he could possibly refute it.

Yet what the Elezen actually said was, “The brown folio you have is a copy of the original manuscript. There’s no illustrations to be found there. The one with the red cover is the first edition, and it has illustrations… though fairly dreadful ones, if I may. There should be a second edition nearby—it has the extra gold leaf decoration on the front and back covers.”

A silent moment passed, ending only when Sain breathed a sigh of relief. He returned the folio to the shelf, only half-conscious of his movements, and idly began running his hands over the other books looking for the revised edition the man had mentioned.

“Thank you, um—I’m s-sorry, but I didn’t catch your name…”

“You did not.”

Another long moment passed, and eventually Sain’s mind urged him to leave the other bibliotheca occupant well enough alone. He was still counting his blessings to have received help instead of scorn—whether or not he shared his name was beside the point. Soon he pulled the second edition and his work truly began.

Research was long, tedious work. Sain would pore over the volumes, going page by page so as not to damage them. He found the illustrations, though different, to be equally lovely, despite the Elezen’s derision. Though few served his needs, Sain redrew the images himself, trying to capture the historical figures in his own hand. By undertaking such labor now, he hoped his attention to detail would save him effort later. His thoroughness, however, meant that three bells had flown by before he had even gotten through the first few chapters. This left him with only three more bells to sleep… he would need to return on the morrow.

As he placed the ancient tomes back on the shelves, Sain looked up—the odd Elezen was still there. He leaned against the edge of the ladder, book in his lap and seemingly fast asleep. For a moment Sain thought of waking him, but he decided against it. Instead he whispered a “Thank you” before turning to leave, the sky just beginning to lighten at the horizon’s edge.


	2. Chapter 2

Life had been normal until the year turned to 261 of the Seventh Astral Era.

In the First Astral Moon, supply lines for ceruleum faced sudden delays. Orders eventually shipped, but the excuses were myriad and contradictory. Erratic deliveries of vital magitek fuels persisted and grew worse until, in the Second Astral Moon, the truth could no longer be concealed. The premier supplier of ceruleum in Eorzea, Almajina & Sons, was forced to announce that ceruleum ore veins had dried up, replaced with unaspected stone. Further research into the crisis revealed that all corners of Thanalan were facing aetherial annihilation; the land was turning astral, colorless and lifeless. The Eorzean Alliance argued, day after day, over what was to be done about the unsustainable situation. Their negotiations, however, proved increasingly fruitless, and the common people began skirmishing over territory and resources.

Scholars took note and called the event the Eighth Umbral Crisis; it had not veered into the territory of calamity _yet_ , but it seemed inevitable if no heroes stepped forward. Hope for such scions was slim; long gone were the days of the Warrior of Light. Since the Age of Heroes the realm had drifted into a state of comfortable apathy, satisfied in the knowledge that Ascian interference was a relic of a bygone era. Thus it fell upon the states themselves to protect their masses, and though all hoped it would not come to war, every nation was secretly raising an army.

At first the Skysteel Manufactory processed only a slightly larger workload than usual—requests from the Temple Knights, Ishgard’s defense force, for updated armor and arms. By the Fifth Astral Moon, however, such orders came in daily and in massive quantities to outfit an ever-growing population of fresh recruits.

Sain was trained in a little of every craft, but his specialization was in metalwork and his talent in the delicate details necessary for jewelers. Unfortunately orders among the nobility for necklaces and earrings had dropped dramatically, and the Au Ra was forced into work he found mind-numbing: chain mail one day, austere swords the next. Growing bored was unacceptable for him, however: when his mind began to wander, his craftsmanship dropped, and subpar work meant a lecture from the foreman—his father.

When work at the manufactory became unbearable, as it was beginning to now, Sain would visit the attic. His father had a penchant for collecting other people’s broken things. As a craftsman, friends and employees would gift him their unwanted jewelry and tarnished tableware. “If you cleaned it up a little, you could make a tidy profit,” they would tell him, but the Skysteel foreman cared little for restoration—the real profit was in mass production, he always told Sain. The gewgaws and knickknacks inevitably made their way to the attic, gathering dust until the foreman could re-gift or sell them. Sain, however, enjoyed dabbling in restoration. He rarely had time for it, but when the daily grind became too stressful he would return to the broken things, carefully select a piece that spoke to him, and slowly make it new again during his free hours.

After several boxes of rusted shields and outdated jewelry, he found his mark. It was an orrery, the focus of choice for Ishgard’s astrologian healers. The design was unlike anything Sain had seen before—each ring had patterns emulating a different style found around the world: a Rivieran ring, a Hingan ring, an Ishgardian ring, and other styles he did not recognize. The craftsmanship was breathtaking and impeccable, and Sain found himself lost as he traced his fingers over the fine reliefs. Then he found the matching card sleeve… and then, the cards.

Almost all astrologian’s divination decks were identical. Several artists had provided slightly different interpretations, but they uniformly featured the Twelve in their elemental harmony. This set seemed slightly off to Sain at first, so he checked the constellation with which he was most familiar—the Spear, the sign of Ishgard’s patron Halone. The card normally depicted the goddess brandishing her weapon—but Halone was a Hyuran woman in armor. The woman on _this_ card was an Elezen, long ice-blue hair and blue robes fluttering in a breeze, spear made of solid ice. And there was a second figure, sitting beside her: a male Elezen in temple knight attire, arm resting over a broken shield.

The illustrations were faded by time and damaged by mishandling, but there were enough symbols for Sain to identify the pair. The man was undoubtedly Saint Haurchefant, dear friend of the Warrior of Light who sacrificed his own life so that the great hero could live on. Which meant that the woman was likely Lady Ysayle, the heretic redeemed when the church’s lies were exposed… and when she, too, gave her life so that the Warrior of Light could expose the Holy See’s lies, end the Dragonsong War and bring peace to Ishgard.

At this realization Sain looked for historical figures in the other cards, too, but found those he recognized sparse. The Ewer features the Scion twins Alphinaud and Alisae Leveilleur, but the Arrow and the Bole depicted people he had never seen before. The Spire had a vaguely familiar dragon, and the Balance…

Sain was certain he had never seen the figures on the Balance card before, yet they stirred his heart. Two men wearing heavy black robes embraced one another, hands intertwined beneath a beautiful red-orange sun. In their free hands, each man held a unique mask—quite possibly their only identification, as their faded faces were remarkably similar. Even damaged by age, the illustration was beautiful, loving, and somehow yearning.

The Au Ra craftsman had already made up his mind to take on this orrery’s restoration, but the box that held the antique contained one more surprise: a perfectly round stone, golden in color and emblazoned with the insignia of the astrologian. A _soul crystal._

Sain was not an adventurer, but in these days of uncertainty his heart secretly yearned for that life. As he created lance after lance, he wished he could do more for his country—no, for all the people of Hydaelyn. Someone needed to step forward and prevent the world from falling into oblivion. Though he had always been the sensitive sort, weak to the sight of blood and unwilling to hurt others, Sain spent many days fantasizing about traveling the land and making a true difference in the lives of others.

He took the soul crystal in his hand, its smooth, cool surface oddly weighty. His understanding was that these crystals contained trace memories of those that carried the stone before so that arts may never die or fade. He knew not how to access them, and yet… when he closed his eyes he imagined himself in mages’ robes, bringing the heavens to the land to aid the sick and weary. As long as he held the hope that such a dream could be a reality, he wished to pursue the fancy.

* * *

The dreams represented by the antique orrery kept Sain in the manufactory, but they did not keep him happy during daylight hours. Once again he found himself making a carbine, and most of his effort was on forcing his mind to stay on track.

Could machines still not mass-produce such austere pieces? Sain once asked his father. The foreman conceded that magitek _had_ advanced that far, but asserted that weapons produced by hand, by artisans, worked better with an average client than a machine-made weapon. Even if Sain doubted this explanation (and he did), his father made the better point that, with aether fast becoming finite resource, magitek could not be relied upon. Thus Sain was trapped.

The walls that served as his gaoler were old and drafty. The Firmament branch of the Skysteel Manufactory had been constructed during the First Restoration, and many joked that it had not seen an update since. Its workshops, where commissions were fulfilled, always collected layers of dust that resisted cleaning. The hum of machinery, at least, provided a grounding noise to Sain’s wandering mind. There were other artisans nearby—there were usually four workstations to a cell of the manufactory—but Sain never got along with his coworkers. He was the foreman’s son and their future boss, after all. While the foreman demanded begrudging respect and fear with his shrewd business acumen and hot temper, Sain’s meek temperament garnered little adoration. Besides, he was lost in his head often. Others could try to get his attention, but about the only thing that brought him back to reality was— 

_“Sain!”_

—the foreman looking for him.

Chanar Dhoro was a hulking tower of a man, tall even for an Au Ra and with profoundly defined musculature. His face was angular with a fierce brow ridge; the scales lining his jaw were thick and jagged, but meticulously maintained. His long hair was often pulled back in a careless ponytail, and the hazardously long locks were about the only sign that he didn’t still work the forge. Next to Sain, it was difficult to see the resemblance between the stern foreman and his son—Sain was very small, his upper body strong but the rest of his form soft. The boy’s face never lost its baby fat, and his facial scales unevenly dotted his nose and cheeks, like shiny black freckles against his alabaster skin. As a worker, Sain chose to wear his hair short, a half-dozen bobby pins holding back unruly bangs.

As Chanar threw a shield onto Sain’s workbench, however, the boy’s immediate, repentant reaction was clearly one of familial experience.

“Does this look familiar?” Chanar’s voice boomed through the cell, garnering the attention of all the other artisans. They did their best not to gawk, but Sain could tell they were looking at him—and he, in turn, did his best to stay calm.

“It’s from—” his voice cracked. _Good start_. He cleared his throat and tried again. “It’s from yesterday’s work order… w-was something wrong with it?”

Chanar shook his head. “You _should_ be asking what’s not wrong with it, boy. You can still see the hammering marks around the rim, there’s nicks all _over_ the disk, the screws on the braces haven’t been sanded down… I could point out a dozen more cut corners. But I _know_ you know better than this. What the hells has gotten into you, Sain!?”

Sain swallowed. “I’m… I’m sorry, sir. I’ve been distracted; this kind of work doesn’t—”

“Doesn’t _entertain_ you!?” His father let out a single guffaw. “You are _not_ playing around in the workshop any more, Sain! You’ve seen some twenty summers—you’re a man, not a boy! And I expect better from you. You’re to inherit the manufactory one day, and what use is a foreman who wants to _play_?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” Sain gripped the supports of the table, breaking eye contact as he put every effort into denying his weakness. “I know… I-I know I need to do better. I’m sorry… please understand…”

The foreman grunted, arms folded and eyes darting around the room to see that his other employees had all but stopped their work to listen. “And what are _you_ staring for? You have work to do, get on it!” Quickly the sound of shuffling and work could be heard once again. Sain prepared to say more, but before he could his father had grabbed his upper arm, pulling him to his feet. “Come with me, boy.”

Sain gasped, barely suppressing a yelp; the elder was already on the move, and the youth stumbled over his own feet catching up. As they moved into the hallway, Chanar began his explanation. “New client came in today. One of those ‘adventurer’ types. Says he needs some specialty gear. Normally I’d kick him out on his arse in a time like this… but after seeing your recent work, I thought you could benefit from the distraction.” He chuckled to himself. “Who knows? _Maybe_ you could even learn some customer etiquette this time.”

“…Yes, sir.”

Unlike the workshops, the client-facing rooms of the manufactory were beautiful, warm and well-kept. The wood was freshly lacquered, the seating well-stuffed and upholstered, and the guest tables embellished with gold trim. Those few that milled about were the usual suspects: soldiers looking to fill or pick up orders, secretaries and clerks to deal with them, and couriers ready to deliver goods to the front lines. A quick scan of the surroundings and Sain found the face that didn’t belong: a Miqo’te with unruly red hair harrying a secretary with an endless line of questions. Though Sain could not make out the specific words of the conversation, it appeared that it had been going on for some time; the secretary’s customer service smile was starting to crack.

“’Venturer!”

The Miqo’te’s ears pricked to attention, and as he turned to the foreman he broke out in a toothy grin. “Ah, there you are!” The adventurer’s eyes turned to Sain, who resisted the urge to hide behind his father. “And this is the artisan you spoke of?”

“Aye, he’s the one. He may not seem much, but he is one of the finest in our workshop.”

Confidence bolstered, Sain studied the adventurer closely. The young man seemed to be about his age—maybe younger, judging by the boundless energy that radiated from his form. His eyes, a striking pale lavender that would have looked sickly or intense on any other, twinkled with wonder and enthusiasm. He dressed in leathers: the choice of fighters who required both swift movement and protection. With a pang of worry, he spied an aetherotransformer hanging from the man’s belt. Was the “specialty gear” just a machinist’s carbine? That would be no different from what he had been doing…

The adventurer’s voice cut through Sain’s thoughts. “G’vett Tia, current adventurer, future scion. Pleasure to meet you!” He offered a hand in greeting, and Sain took it—only to have his arm jostled up and down in an enthusiastic, overblown gesture.

“S-Sain Dhoro of the Manufactory, sir…!”

“Lovely!” The Miqo’te flicked his ears, never breaking his grin. “Now that we know each other… shall we discuss my job?”

* * *

“An… aetherometer?”

“Fascinating, right?”

“I-I don’t know if I’ve ever seen one before…”

G’vett lounged back, arms behind his head, tail flicking excitedly. Sain turned the magitek goggles in his hands over and over. One of the lenses was badly cracked, but there was likely something wrong with the mechanics of the device beneath the surface.

Ignoring or missing the worry on Sain’s face, the adventurer continued talking. “Originally they were a device of Sharlayan design, but some ages past the Garlond Ironworks took their work and perfected it. Now it reads more accurately than ever— _and_ it’s stylish! They haven’t seen mass production, but if you know who to talk to… finding a pair is easy enough.”

“What… I-I’m sorry if this is a stupid question. I’m just wondering—what makes them different from normal goggles?”

“Not a daft question at all, friend!” The adventurer leaned in with a conspiratorial smile, clearly eager to share his knowledge. “An aetherometer measures… well, _aether_. It allows a person to see the aether, the way it flows to and from stone, sea, sky, and all living things. Right _now,_ I’ve been using it to measure aether in areas affected by the Crisis.”

“So you’re looking for a solution?” The words tumbled out of Sain’s mouth before he could stop them, excitement palpable. He wished instantly to take the words back, biting his lip. Yet G’vett simply smiled at him.

“I told you, didn’t I? I walk the same path as the heroes of eld—one day, I hope to earn the title they used… _scion_.”

Chanar would turn his nose in disgust, and part of Sain wanted to do the same at the adventurer’s ego. Yet he was so earnest, eyes lost in reverence. To walk alongside such a man one day… Sain smiled, wistful at the thought.

“…Ah, I know that look. Care to run away and join me, do you?”

Sain jumped. “It’s not that, it’s…”

G’vett laughed loud and deep. “Oh, it’s quite alright, friend!” He put a hand on Sain’s shoulder, making the Auri youth recede even further. “Remember that we all have our parts to play, and the role of a craftsman is no less important than one of an adventurer.”

“Of… of course.”

An awkward silence.

“A-anyway!” G’vett straightened up. “As you can see, the lens cracked. Thought I’d have a look down in some Amdapori ruins and ran into a right nasty demon. Hit me good in the head… the chirurgeon gave me _quite_ the talking-to for that!” He laughed again, though Sain failed to see the humor in the life-or-death situation. “…The goggles probably saved me from being bedridden. I’d be happy if you could give it a thorough once-over. Make sure all the bits and bobbles are moving correctly, and whatnot.”

Sain nodded. Though worried the technical expertise would be beyond him, he was thankful for the different assignment. Being able to see the inner workings of a magitek device was an exciting prospect; hearing stories from a real adventurer was a bonus that could fill the yearning in Sain’s heart.

At the moment, though, he needed to remain professional. “I’ll see what I can do. You’ll be billed for materials first, then pay for labor afterward. Any objections?”

“None at all! I’ve set aside a nice sum, so there should be no problems.” Sensing their time together was at an end, G’vett stood. “If you have any troubles or updates, I’ll be staying in the local hostelry. If you can’t find me, look for a Lalafellin lad with long hair, glasses, and a dour expression. He’s my partner, and he can answer any questions in my place.”

“Lalafell with glasses… understood. The Manufactory appreciates your custom, sir.”

“Please, call my G’vett! I’ve never been one for stuffy formalities.”

“A-all right… G’vett… but, um, if the foreman comes around, I _will_ need to call you ‘sir.’”

The adventurer nodded, and for a brief moment G’vett’s face seemed less than ecstatic—was it sadness, or worry? Well, no use dwelling on it—whatever the strange adventurer may feel, Sain had not the time for such musings.

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a oneshot so I could stop thinking about Emet-Selch every day, so I could exorcise this demon before starting an original work for NaNoWriMo.
> 
> Guess what my NaNovel actually was? Siiigh. However, I truly enjoyed working on this, and I hope you too enjoy!


End file.
